John Is But A Dream
by EliseHart
Summary: Sherlock jumps from St. Bart's roof with a plan to survive that he and Molly had helped make possible. But he gets knocked out by the impact and instead of waking up in Molly's flat, he was surprised to find himself in a hospital where John Watson is his doctor.


"SHERLOCK!"

John's scream bombarded Sherlock's ears combined with the scream of the air he was falling through. Time seemed to slow as he felt a cold tear try to leak out of his eye, held back by the rushing wind. The area Molly had prepared slowly neared, causing Sherlock's stomach to flip. Still fresh on his lips, John's name felt dry and bitter. He wanted to close his eyes, to hide from the approaching impact. If only he could take back his words, tell John the truth, and stop the inevitable pain they both would undoubtedly experience.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes to be greeted by bright, overhead lights. He wondered if this could be Molly's flat, but quickly reevaluated his conclusion at the sight of white walls, tiled floors, and the faint sound of the pulsing rhythm of his ever beating heart. What had happened? Did something go wrong?

Across the room, a doctor had been tending to another patient when Sherlock's vitals changed their course, signaling he had woken up. "Ah, awake I see, Mr. Holmes. You've been out quite a while, people were starting to lose hope that you'd ever come around."

That voice, Sherlock thought. So familiar. He moved his pounding head to the best of his ability to try and see the man for himself. The doctor noticed and limped closer so Sherlock didn't have to put as much strain on his neck, "No need to snap your neck, that won't solve anything," he chuckled, obviously trying to change the shocked expression plastered on Sherlock's face. "Sorry about the leg, by the way," he said, tapping his foot with a familiar metal cane.

"John," Sherlock managed to choke out. Though upon opening his mouth to say more, he found it to be too difficult a task. Not only to fight passed the confusion, but also the numbing migraine he was experiencing chased away any thought that tried to enter his brain.

His doctor looked at him, startled, and replied, "Well, er, yes. I'm...I'm sorry, have we met before, Mr. Holmes? I'm not sure I remember you."

Sherlock stared blankly at the doctor. His doctor. Dr. John Watson: the only man in the world that he couldn't scare off, even if he tried, has completely forgotten him. "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." His speech was slightly slurred, causing him to deduce that the migraine could have been the result of some head trauma, which must have been the result of the fall if something had indeed gone wrong. There was also a probability that he was just hallucinating, that John wasn't actually in the room let alone clueless to who Sherlock was.

John shifted his feet, cleared his throat, and looked down at his shoes before looking back into Sherlock's iced eyes. "I'm aware, Mr. Holmes, of who you are. I have your file," he showed the confused man his folder, "Would you like to look through it?" Sherlock readily agreed, flipping from page to page. Experiment. Chemical explosion. Comatose. "You must be confusing me with someone else."

It took but a moment for Sherlock to realize the situation. "How long?" he asked, faintly remembering the experiment. In his mind, the explosion wasn't as bad as anticipated and he got along just fine, never even went to the hospital. Though it had become clear that this was not the case.

Concerned, John replied, "You've been here for two months. Sounds like you've had quite the dream." Sherlock sighed, wanting nothing more than to tell John everything. Everything they did, everything they were, everything he felt, even that which the John Watson of his dreams didn't know. "It's been proven that when a person is comatose, they hear everything subconsciously. It explains how you would know who I am if you're confused."

Of course, Sherlock already knew that. But how could _this_ John understand. They were meeting for the first time, and he found that a difficult thought to wrap his head around. His heart wrenched inside his chest, which he found difficult to hide due to the machines he was hooked up to. Now desperate to not lose John upon his release, Sherlock asked, "When I've recovered enough to leave, would you kindly let me show you my dream?"

An awkward chuckle escaped John's lips as he looked at the file folder and picked it up. "It would be bloody unprofessional, Mr. Holmes. It was just a dream; you're in the real world now. Why try to go back?"

Sherlock shrugged, a frown plastered on his face and a glazed look in his eye, "Because I would be content living my whole life in that dream."

John sighed. He shook his head, pursed his lips, and started to chew on his cheek; something Sherlock noticed he often did while thinking. He had to admit that it was a strange proposition. A man wakes from two months in comatose and basically insists he had been dreaming about his doctor in a scenario he wouldn't want to wake from; not exactly the most settling thing to hear. Looking back up at Sherlock for a moment and then picking at a corner of the file, John gave his answer, "If you think it will help you come to terms with reality, then I'll do it in the sense that I am your doctor and only helping you improve your mental stability."

Slightly irritated, Sherlock relaxed a little and replied, "Yes, my stability would be much improved, thank you."

John nodded, checked Sherlock's vitals, and wrote down some notes on one of the file's papers. In return, Sherlock watched him intently, trying to re-memorize his every mannerism all over again since 'dream John' should, theoretically, be much different than 'real John'. But to his surprise, they were very much the same, causing Sherlock's spirits to rise. A theory came to mind, "Dr. Watson."

The doctor looked up, widening his gaze slightly and smiling, ready to serve. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. Do you need anything?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock replied, "Oh no, I would just like you to answer a few questions for me."

Clearing his throat, John wavered for a moment, limped over to a chair, and slid it over to Sherlock's bed. "Alright, Mr. Holmes. What would you like to know?"

Without first deducing John, Sherlock simply asked the first question he did to 'dream John', "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John's gaze became a look of surprise, "Sorry, how did you-"

"Afghanistan. Or. Iraq."

"Well, Afghanistan, but how did you-"

"Is your sister's name Harry? Did she give you her phone, which was a present from her ex wife, Clara? Harry, does she drink?"

Sherlock's questions came by so fast, one after the other, that John had a hard time processing them. How could he have known all that? John had never mentioned Harry at work, which includes not mentioning Clara as well. Uncomfortable that Sherlock was right on all terms, he replied, "Alright, you have my attention. How do you know all that?"

Now completely satisfied, Sherlock simply teased, "So you're willing to take this a little more seriously, then?"

John paused before answering, "Yes, alright. Obviously something weird is going on and it's...intriguing to say the least." He checked his watch and then returned his attention to Sherlock, "I clock out after this, so I'm in no rush. Tell me about our lives in your dream."

"It will take a long time," Sherlock insisted. "I won't finish tonight."

More curious than ever, John quickly replied, "Well, we have a few days until you should be well enough to leave. That should be enough time, eh?"

"Yes, a few days should suffice."

* * *

Over the course of three days, John sat next to Sherlock's bed and let him describe his experience in comatose. It was an exciting life; one John envied and also secretly wished was real. Before long, he stopped needing his cane just from the vigor of Sherlock's story. That alone pleased him enough to consider moving to 221B on the spot. Of course, John Watson never mentioned this to Sherlock, though he didn't have to. Sherlock knew what an effect his story could create, and that was the whole purpose to begin with.

Once Sherlock was released, John said he'd be taking the rest of the day off so they could venture into London, side by side. Hands held firmly behind his back, Sherlock was used to the strange looks by passing pedestrians and the warmth he felt in John's presence. John, however, was not and his discomfort showed. Sherlock, for once, felt a slight pang of empathy and to make things fair, he hailed a cab to take them the rest of the way. It was nearly noon when the pair finally arrived at 221B Baker Street.

When they entered, Sherlock was taken aback by the disorder and chaos enveloping his home. Papers strewn about; moving boxes piled on tables and chairs; old equipment cluttering every piece of furniture; he could barely find the sofa. He had forgotten the disarray of the flat from being so used to John and Mrs. Hudson constantly tidying up the place. John saw the nervous look on his face, cleared his throat, and finally spoke, "Well, it's nice. Very nice indeed-"

"Except for all the rubbish. I know, you said the same before," Sherlock interrupted, starting to spruce up what he could. "Make yourself at home; I'll have Mrs. Hudson bring some tea."

Sitting down, John replied, "Oh, that's fine, Mr." He was cut off by Sherlock's glare, which insisted they be less formal. "Er, Sherlock. I'm not in the mood for any." From the intent look John was giving him, Sherlock knew what he was really in the mood for.

"I can't help on a case if I don't know about one. Honestly, John, you know more than anyone how long I've had no contact with the real world." Sadness overpowered Sherlock's mind. He just couldn't seem to shake the feeling that he had lost his blogger, his friend, even when the same man sat right in front of him and was attempting to visit his life.

John shifted in his chair, "It's going to take some time to get used to that, I can tell already."

"Hm?"

"The whole...reading me like a book thing where I barely have to say a word."

Sherlock would blame this on the fact that he had known John for so long, but on the other hand, he could do the same deduction with any human. He hadn't realized till now that although it was hard for him to grasp the fact that he had to completely start over with his and John's friendship, it also must have been just as difficult for John to wrap his head around the fact that a complete stranger knows everything about him.

Suddenly, Sherlock bolted to his bedroom, changed as quickly as possible into his purple shirt, slacks, and jacket; reemerging into the sitting room to grab his beloved coat. "Wha-where are you going?" John inquired, standing from his chair.

Tying on his dark blue, plaid scarf, Sherlock answered, "Not me. Us. We're going out to eat."

"Sherlock, it's not...I'm not-"

"Neither am I. Let's go."

John followed closely behind as Sherlock sped out onto the sidewalk and hailed a cab. "Why would we eat if we're not hungry?"

His gaze wasn't angry, annoyed, or even frustrated. It was a humored look; John was enjoying this. Sherlock half smiled and held open the car door for his friend, climbing inside after him.

The ride to the restaurant was a short one and John insisted on paying the fare. Angelo greeted Sherlock at the door and seated the two men at a booth with a window, coincidentally the same booth they sat at in Sherlock's dream. It was amusing to watch John react when Angelo called him, "the date", which Sherlock had texted Angelo ahead of time asking if he would. It had been a long time since John had resented the idea, (at least in Sherlock's mind) and it was difficult for Sherlock to hide his amusement.

After a minute or two of waiting for the food they had ordered, John spoke up, "So, what are we doing here?"

"Waiting," Sherlock mumbled. He had hoped that Lestrade had heard of his release from the hospital, but apparently he hadn't since he wasn't asking for help. "I just texted the chief of police to contact me if he needs me. He should answer shortly since the police are incompetent."

John nodded just as their lunches arrived. The contrast between the two plates was humorous, in a way. Sherlock's, nearly empty, remained untouched throughout their stay. John's was filled to the brim, but not for long. Sherlock's phone buzzed and John asked, "Is that him?"

Checking the text, Sherlock nodded, "Yes, there's been a murder. Oh, it's boring. Probably a three. Oh well." Before John could question him, the detective motioned to his friend's plate, "I thought you weren't hungry."

"I wasn't_ before_ we left," John said chuckling. Sherlock returned a smile, hopped out of his seat, and motioned John to follow him. As always, the doctor didn't disappoint him.

The two men arrived at the crime scene of a mutilated man left to rot in a London ally. His name was Carl Harvey, identified by Officer William Madison. A dog had found Mr. Harvey completely stripped down to nothing and proceeded to have a little snack. The dog's owner called the police after walking in on his meal. To the average person, the cause of death would have been near impossible to determine, but Sherlock's eyes saw all, as always.

He baffled John in his first statement, "Domestic."

"Wha-" Lestrade tried to form words, shocked that Sherlock could come to a conclusion so quickly. "How could you possibly know that?!"

Sherlock paused for a moment to take a breath and explained, "Stab wounds are quite different from dog bites, the gashes are deeper and not as small. I count five, no, six punctures, smaller but not as small as teeth marks but also jagged, indicating it was from a serrated steak knife. The wounds are erratic, angry, and violent so the attacker obviously wasn't experienced. Steak knives are readily available to anyone. His wedding ring has been removed, obviously by the attacker since there are only small traces of smeared blood on his ring finger. Must be the wife. Also, there are cuts and bruises on the knuckles of his right hand, indicating that he hit something or _someone_, presumably the attacker, fairly hard. I suggest finding his wife and checking their kitchen for blood. Oh, and she should have either a busted lip or slight bruising on her face."

"That's fantastic!" John blurted out in amazement.

Smirking, Sherlock replied, "It's been a while since you've done that aloud."

Lestrade butted in, "Sorry, who is this again?"

"Dr. John Watson," John answered, offering his hand, "I'm here to assist in any way I can, though I don't think there's too much more to figure out."

Sherlock nudged John nonchalantly and nodded towards the body, "Which stab wound was fatal?"

John looked up at him in surprise, the fatal wound couldn't really be important, could it? But, compelled by the encouraging look Sherlock was giving him, he thought he could at least try. The doctor bent down, located the six punctures, and determined their placement. The first one was obviously located in the upper chest, first instinct. The second one was nearby, and the third was in the stomach. None were deep enough to do much damage. The fourth, however, was nearby the jugular vein, definitely the main cause of death. The other two looked random, like she had stabbed the poor bloke two more times just for good measure. He stood, straightened himself up, and pointed to the shoulder wound, "That one is the fatal wound. Looks to me like it was the fourth hit."

Lestrade rubbed his face, "Jesus. What could make a woman go to such lengths?"

"Your wife isn't going to murder you," Sherlock said condescendingly.

"I-I didn't say-"

"This was a dispute caused by his disloyalty to her." As he spoke, Sherlock turned towards Officer Madison, who looked up in shock. "Madison, you and Harvey were closer than his wife would have liked."

Officer Madison looked around desperately, sighed, and admitted, "Yes...I wanted to tell her with him, but he insisted he go it alone. Their marriage wasn't exactly the best."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Clearly. Well, I think we're done here. John?" He glanced over at the doctor and then turned to walk back to the street. John nodded to the irritated group of policemen and made his way to the street where Sherlock was hailing another cab.

"You're incredible," he complimented as the cab pulled up to the curb.

With a grin, Sherlock climbed into the car. When the doctor climbed in after him and shut the door, Sherlock inquired about where the cab should let him out, knowing full well that his plan had succeeded. John thought for what seemed like an eternity. Yes, he really should head home. But home to what? An empty, boring flat filled to the brim with ghosts and nightmares? He knew he didn't want that, deciding to give the address and ask Sherlock to wait up for him while he grabbed a few things.

Trying desperately to contain his joy, Sherlock watched as car by car passed in the fading sunlight and knew they would soon be home. When they arrived at John's building, he flashed out of the cab as Sherlock stood outside to wait and soak in the city. It didn't take John long to look through his things. He barely had any clothes; mostly just dress shirts, a few jumpers, and three or four pairs of slacks and jeans, so it wasn't difficult to pack. Grabbing his gun and computer on his way out, he said goodbye to a life that he would not miss and hello to one that only exists in a dream.

Sherlock was waiting patiently by the not-so-patient cabby when John finally returned. "Planning on staying a while?" he asked, gesturing at John's bag of clothing.

Flustered, John looked down at his pack and then shrugged, "Possibly." Seeing Sherlock half smile, he grinned back and they returned to the car again, giving the cabby the address of their new home.

After a few minutes of painful silence, Sherlock wondered aloud, "What made you change your mind?"

John looked over, startled, and asked, "About what?"

"Oh please, John, you can't be _that_ thick."

After a moment of stunned silence, John answered, "If you mean about staying and living your dream with you, I guess it's for the same reason you want to." Sherlock stayed silent for a second before John finished, "Because I'd be perfectly content living my whole life in that dream."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and nodded, "Well that's a perfectly understandable reason. One that I," he paused to clear his throat, "very much agree with."

John chuckled and bit his lower lip. Sherlock watched as if in slow motion as John started to lean in. His hands instantly grew slick with sweat as he moved to meet John halfway. Just before their lips touched, John took a glance to the front windshield. His eyes grew wide and he jumped in front of the detective, acting as a human shield. The only thing the man heard was all too familiar scream, "SHERLOCK!"

* * *

For the second time that week, Sherlock woke up in a daze with bright lights pouring into his vision, causing an instantaneous migraine. He groaned as he wondered why hospitals needed such piercing lights right above their patients. Also, he wondered why he was in the hospital at all. He and John were on their way to Baker Street. They were talking. Then John-

No!

Sherlock's expression changed as he realized what happened. A nurse, who was in the room, noticed he had woken up and approached his bed, "Hullo, Mr. Holmes. Glad to see you awake." He recognized her from his previous stay. Sometimes she assisted John.

John. "Where's John?" he asked worriedly.

"Dr. Watson is over here, Mr. Holmes." She spoke in a sad tone as he attempted to lift himself to get a better look.

On the other side of the room John laid in his own bed, hooked up to wires, machines and was wrapped with numerous bandages. Sherlock wasn't aware of what had hit them, but he knew from John's position on impact, his condition could not be good. "How is he?"

With a sigh, the nurse answered, "Critical, I'm afraid. A few broken bones. Severe concussion. Lost a lot of blood. In all of honesty, his chances are...slim." She sniffled, catching Sherlock's attention, "I hope he pulls through. He was such a good man..."

Sherlock looked back at the dying man. All the blood drained from his face and he tried to stifle his emotions with a cough. The nurse heard and walked over to comfort him when John's machines started beeping erratically. She gasped, ran to him, and checked the machine. Doctors and nurses ran into the room, all trying to keep John's failing heart going. All Sherlock could do was watch in horror and silently pray that he would pull through. When John suddenly flat-lined, Sherlock felt his entire body go numb. "One...Two...Three...CLEAR!" Nothing. Sherlock's heart rate increased, causing his machine to beep faster. The nurse from before looked up at him as they tried again. "One...Two...Three...CLEAR!" A tear dripped out of her eye. One of the doctors sighed and wiped sweat off of his forehead.

Sherlock's mind whirled as the group slowly relaxed, _"No! No! Keep trying, you incompetent bastards!"_ But his lips stayed shut and quivering. One by one, the doctors and nurses filed out until the last two were left. They started to roll the bed out of the room before Sherlock stopped them, "Wait." The pair paused, "Please...can we have a moment." Sherlock realized this was a strange proposition and couldn't have blamed them for rejecting him, but they had sympathy for him, rolled John's bed over, and left the room.

"You have five minutes, Mr. Holmes."

The door closed behind them and Sherlock looked over at John. This incredible man, a man who didn't get the chance to prove to Sherlock what a heart he had except for in a dream. An astonishing, perfect dream. He reached out and slipped John's hand into his. The feeling was cold, stiff, dead. He had to take a breath before criticizing, "You idiot. Why! Why did you do it?!"

There was no response. Not even the comforting rising and falling of his chest.

Sherlock stifled a sob and shook his head, "I'm not one for...compliments, John. You know that. But, you. Are. Extraordinary. No matter how simple, you've always been unique. To everyone. You're brilliant. The best man I've ever known," his grip tightened, "And the only friend I've ever had." A sigh escaped his lips, letting a warm tear trickle down his face. As it fell, he brought John's hand to his lips, chilling them and causing his body to be racked with the sobs he was trying desperately to contain.

"Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock looked up to one of the nurses; he hadn't noticed him walk in. "Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to take him now." He nodded and slowly released his grip.

As the nurse carted John's body away, Sherlock said the last thing he ever would to Dr. John Watson, "Goodbye, John."

* * *

Later that night, when most of the nurses and doctors were gone and all the patients were asleep, Sherlock climbed out of his bed. There was a woman sharing his room now, waiting for surgery by a replacement for John. Most likely someone far less skilled and wonderful. He took out his IV and the pin off of his finger, quickly attaching it to hers. After a moment of quiet, Sherlock determined no one had noticed the switch, changed into his regular attire, and slipped out of his room.

The lobby was surprisingly vacant, even the secretary was missing, so Sherlock had no trouble in leaving without being questioned by anyone.

Once out in the cold, night air, memories of being on many different cases with John flooded his mind. He just couldn't accept that it was only a dream. It was too real. It had to be real. But now John Watson is dead, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to stop it.

After walking half a block, a thought caused Sherlock's pace to slow. Where was he going? What life was he returning to? Life without John wasn't quite life at all. Nothing had ever mattered more, not even his work, and he found himself regretting ever saying otherwise. Without his blogger, the work was pointless, meaningless, boring.

Boredom. A cunning enemy. And finally Sherlock found the cure for such a disease. Maybe it was mad, maybe it was genius; but he had never thought of a better purpose for a double-decker bus. Calculating the perfect moment faster than any deduction he had ever attempted, Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes, picturing his best friend waiting for him on the other side of the road, and jumped.


End file.
